


You Don't Do That To Love

by StellarLibraryLady



Series: Frank and Sammy [5]
Category: Actors RPF
Genre: AU, Angst, Betrayal, Caesar's Palace, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Guilt, Hollywood Legends, Jerry Lewis - Freeform, Las Vegas, Loyalty, M/M, Movie Stars, One Shot, Show Business, The Rat Pack, The Sands, dean martin - Freeform, real person fiction - Freeform, singers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 01:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10322291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellarLibraryLady/pseuds/StellarLibraryLady
Summary: Sammy Davis, Jr., has announced to the world that he thinks that he is a better singer than Frank Sinatra.  The only trouble is, Sammy is feeling miserable about what he has done to someone he loves.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the incidents mentioned here really happened. 
> 
> This is being posted on Jerry Lewis's birthday! Happy Birthday, Jerry, to one of the greatest! We know that you loved both of these guys!

Sammy Davis, Jr. was nervous, and that was ridiculous. He had been performing on a stage since he was four years old, but tonight he was nervous. He loved an audience; he fed off their adulations. But tonight he feared them. No, not them. Just one person. One man who may, who just may, be in their midst. 

Frank Sinatra. 

Frank Sinatra? Frank Sinatra, you say?! But Frank and Sammy adored each other. They had for years. Everyone knew that.

Or did they?

Sammy just kept feeling that he had made a mistake. Not a mistake with what he had said, but that he had said it in the first place. He felt disloyal.

It had seemed so innocent. He should have remembered that he was on the radio with little chance that he could deny that he had said what he had said. There had been too many listeners. Besides, who could deny something that was on tape?

And that bastard of a talk show host had known just exactly what was going on even if Sammy Davis, Jr. hadn’t. Sammy was just sharing an opinion of his between friends. He had been airing a sore point between him and Frank Sinatra. But Sammy felt that what he said was true.

He was a better singer than Frank Sinatra. Pure and simple. Maybe Frankie was better known, but Sammy was a no holds barred better singer. And it was time that the world, and Frank Sinatra, owned up to it.

All Sammy had said was the truth. Why, then, did he feel so alone? Besides that, he felt like a traitor. There was good reason for that feeling. 

He was a traitor.

Frank Sinatra had saved his ugly, worthless life. Literally. Back in the 1950s Sammy had been dating Kim Novak, a pretty, but blonde actress with white skin. A black man dating a white woman just wasn’t approved of back in the 1950s. In fact, a number of states had laws on the books saying it was illegal for a black man and a white woman to be married to each other. Even if both of the parties were famous.

A pretty reliable rumor made the circuits that a contract had been put out on Sammy’s life. Somehow, Frank had stopped anything bad happening. Sammy even got threats that he would lose his other eye. A car accident had taken one eye when Sammy had been on his way to a recording session. He couldn’t afford to lose the only one he had left. 

But Sinatra had taken care of that problem. Sinatra had connections. Nuff said. Some things you just didn’t talk about. ‘Cause some things that were causing a problem had a way of not being a problem, anymore. And Frank Sinatra had seen to that bit of housecleaning. Easily. Efficiently. Quietly. Stress on the Quietly. Hell, Sammy could go along with that.

What was Sammy even thinking to be dating a white woman? This was still the 1950s in America. As big a name as he was, Sammy couldn’t even have a room in the hotels of the casinos where he was appearing. If white America didn‘t want him sleeping in their hotels, how in the hell did he think he would ever dare to sleep with their women? 

But he had a thing for blondes. There was this Swedish actress, May Britt…. She was about as pale as he was dark. He needed to leave her alone. But she had those blue eyes. And that blonde hair. That damned blonde hair that was a weakness of his.

The girl dancers came running offstage with a flutter of feathers and giggles. One even tried to flirt with Sammy. Hmm. Red hair. Not bad. Wonder if she was a natural redhead?

Had he ever had a redhead? A real redhead? For that matter, had he ever had a real blonde? There were so few of those around. He loved the illusion, though. And he had learned, the hard way, that a man should not go by what color of hair a woman had on her head. If he did, he was judging by the wrong end of her. It was down where the exciting stuff was that guy should be looking. 

Sammy smirked. Generally, though, a guy had other things on his mind by the time he had gotten that far with, ah, negotiations.

“Davis!” The stage manager yelled. “You’re on next!”

Sammy’s heart felt like it stopped. Literally, stopped. Or jumped up into his throat. No! Anywhere, but his throat! His voice box needed to be unimpeded. He needed to be able to sing!

But he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to sing again. Or, if he got out there, and the training of a lifetime would take over and he would perform on automatic pilot. He’d done it before. It was like the experience of driving a familiar road so often that at times whole stretches would pass without the driver being conscious of the passage.

‘Cause this thing with Frank, it was bad. Sammy had felt the brunt of the result of his loose lips in a most brutal way.

Sammy had been cast to work with Frank in Never So Few, a Second World War movie set in Burma, then all hell had broken loose about what Sammy had said on the radio. When the dust settled, he had been replaced in the movie by Steve McQueen. And a cold war had settled around Sammy and Frank. 

Then had started a very elaborate chess game of staying out of each other’s road. And the results could get into the realm of the ridiculous.

The entertainment world can become a very small place when you’re trying to stay out of somebody’s path. Sammy should know. Frank seemed to be everywhere he was. Or was going to be. Or had been.

Or maybe Sammy was just super sensitive to Frank’s presence. Dean Martin said that a guy got to be that way, and he should know what he was talking about. After breaking up with Jerry Lewis in 1956, Lewis seemed to be a constant blimp on Dino’s radar. Maybe that had come from all of those years of being partners. You started to sense the rhythm of the other guy. Hell, the other guy was your performing half! No wonder Dino felt that way. He had to feel off balance without Lewis.

But that didn’t explain Frank’s blimp on Sammy’s radar. Sammy did a single.

So did Sinatra.

Yet, here was Sammy Davis, Jr., about to be onstage at the Sands in Las Vegas, and nervous as hell. Sinatra just had to be here! Sammy sensed it.

It wasn’t like they were partners. At least, not onstage. But offstage, when Frank held him in the quietness of night, Sammy could almost believe that they were partners in something. Frank made it seem like everything was going to be alright. And Sammy knew he was needed by Sinatra. Frank Sinatra hated the night, hated being alone, hated the ‘wee, small hours of the morning’ he sang so lovingly about. Bullshit! Sinatra didn’t love that time of the night. He hated it. And he would use anything, or anybody, to get him safely through it. And Sammy Davis, Jr. was more than willing to be Sinatra’s security blanket. But Frank was more than a taker. He made it so worthwhile for Sammy to be nice to him that Sammy just had to love him for needing him, if nothing else.

And there was just so much to love about Frank Sinatra.

Sammy had never known hands as magic as Frank’s. So soft, so gentle, so warm, so loving, so patient at leading Sammy to where he wanted him to be. In his arms, in his bed, in his life. Frank Sinatra didn’t mind that Sammy was short, or black, or had only one working eye. Sammy had other things that Frank was needing, and they far outweighed any of what Sammy considered his deficits. 

But what would those hands do now to Sammy if Frank considered his betrayal unforgivable? Would those hands hurt? Would those hands beat? Would those hands punish?

Or would those hands never touch him again?

That would hurt worse than a beating.

To be denied that touch, that intimacy, that love, would hurt far worse than a harsh punishment.

Or those eyes. To have those blue, blue eyes look hurt. Look jaded. Look weary. 

Look betrayed.

As well they should!

Oh, Frank!

What have I done?!

“Davis! You’re on!”

The music for his opening song began to play, and his feet stepped out on stage before he could stop them. And the rest of him followed.

He opened his mouth, and words came out.

He felt the words come out, and they were a song.

He heard the song come out, and it was magic.

He felt the smile spread across his face, and the audience responded.

They were his, and he was theirs.

And all was fine.

As long as he was on stage, performing, singing, dancing, all was fine. He was in his element. He was with a few thousand of his closest friends. He could feel the love.

Now, he just had to worry about what to do with the rest of his life after this performance was over. Then he could worry about Sinatra again.

But, for now, he was home. The audience loved him, and he loved his audience, and that’s all that mattered. They would sustain each other.

 

Then, all too soon, he was back in his dressing room. One moment, he was the center of adulation, the audience applauding, cheering, yelling its approval. The next, he was back here, by himself, again. As it always happened, as it always does, alone, again. 

Then put that person in the same state of being alone in the middle of the night, in the ‘wee, small hours of the morning,‘ and he could understand why Sinatra found that a particularly difficult time to face and to fill. It was because each man was alone with himself, and sometimes that is the toughest audience to face. 

That’s the one you can’t fool. That’s the one that knows the truth about you. That’s it’s all a fake, a sham. You’re fooling people. You’re not really talented, it’s a magic show instead of the real thing. Ask Jerry Lewis. As funny as he was to the world, he could never see that he was that funny.

But that’s the way it was with talent. To the person having it, it seems like nothing special. They’ve always been able to do it. So they shrug. What’s the big deal, anyway? They think that other people can do it, too. They just choose not to pursue it. Or aren’t interested enough to use it. It always amazes the talented person that other people think that they have some sort of special gift. But a gift, it is. And as such, it should be recognized.

But, meanwhile, Sammy sat by himself backstage after his show. He could hear the music from the stage and voices outside his dressing room. Those were sounds proving that there was life still somewhere in this world. But not in Sammy’s dressing room.

He felt hollow, and the room sounded hollow. Or muffled. Or numb. 

Davis threw back his head. Please, let it be numbness! Numbness from this terrible knowledge that he had done wrong.

He thought about his grandmother. He could hear her saying, “Sammy, I taught you better than that. That man love you. And you betrayed him! You don’t do that to love.”

“But, it is the truth!”

“I know I taught you to love the truth. But there’s times common sense gotta factor in there, too. There ain’t nothing in this world better, or scarcer, than love. And, boy, you done taken a crap on some of the best loving you ever gonna get in this world!”

Man, she could see right through him! “Help me make it right.”

“I can’t do that for you, Sammy. You gotta do this yourself. For yourself. And for that dear man who love you so much. Do what your heart tell you. You were raised right. You'll know what to do, because it's a part of you. If it ain't by now, it never will be. But I know it is. Otherwise, you wouldn't be hurting.”

Sammy always hated it when his grandmother was right. Thank you, Grandmother! Or should I just call you by your alter ego! My conscience!

Sammy could feel his grandmother smiling. 

Finally, he changed his clothes. Nobody was going to rescue him. He had to do that for himself. Even his grandmother had bailed on him.

He grimaced. That was unfair. Grandmother had told him the truth, the nagging that wasn’t giving him any peace. His conscience! 

He supposed he should be happy he had a conscience. Some people didn’t. That’s what put them on the same level with pond scum and elevated Sammy above it. But, at least, those people could say the same thing he had, the truth, and still be able to sleep afterwards. They were not haunted by the words later, as Sammy had been. 

Outside the Sands, he hailed the limo that was waiting.

“Caesar’s Palace,” he told the driver as he dove into the shadowy interior.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Davis.”

That brought a moment’s respite. These limo drivers took celebrities around town. The drivers got to be as jaded as stagehands. Stars didn‘t faze them, but this guy was impressed with Sammy.

“Recognized me, huh?” Sammy asked with a grin.

“You’re hard to miss. But, yeah! Love you, man!”

This had to be one of two things.

“New to town?” Sammy asked, hoping he had chosen the right one.

The driver grinned into his mirror. “Yeah, how did you know?”

“Star struck, aren’t you?”

“You bet! They ain’t never gonna believe I met you back in--”

Des Moines. Boise. Plymouth. Milwaukee. It really didn’t matter which town. Or what kid. They were all the same.

The other thing the driver could’ve been was a guy wanting a hookup for the night. Any other time, Sammy might’ve accommodated him. Wouldn’t that be a story for the folks back in Des Moines, Boise, wherever. The only trouble was, nobody would’ve believed the kid. Nobody would’ve believed that the kid had had Sammy Davis, Junior.

Sammy might’ve been willing to have taken him on, even if that wasn’t what the kid was after. Sammy could’ve changed the kid’s mind fast. From what Sammy was seeing, the kid was built sturdy. Probably had rough hands, farmer’s hands, laboring hands, at least. Hands that could pleasure him a lot and bring Sammy another small respite until morning. Clumsy hands, but sometimes those were the best, especially when you were wanting a fumbling, crude experience. And that’s what Sammy would be wanting from this kid, tonight.

Because that’s all that Sammy deserved.

The only trouble, Sammy just wasn’t in the mood for that kind of adventure tonight. As the song goes, or one should go, he had an old love on his mind.

“Gonna catch Sinatra’s late show, are you, Mr. Davis?”

“Yeah,” Sammy mumbled. “Might as well.”

“It must be swell knowing someone big, really big, like Frank Sinatra.” The kid glanced in the rear view mirror. “You know what I mean? It must be great!”

“Yeah, it is.” Hell, yes, it is.

And hell, yes, the kid was right. Frank was big. Bigger than Sammy. Yeah, Sammy was a star. But Frank, Frank was a megastar. Sammy was a legend, but Frank was a legend’s legend. 

Sammy might be a better singer, but Frank Sinatra was a star, with a star’s mystique about him. And Sammy Davis might have some of that, but never the breath catching awe of a Frank Sinatra. And you know what? In the scheme of things, that was alright.

“So, are you going to get to go back to Mr. Sinatra’s dressing room after he finishes his show?”

If he lets me in. “I suppose.”

The kid’s eyes were sparkling as he pulled over to a side entrance to Caesar‘s Palace. “Wow! You tell him that we all love him, will you, Mr. Davis?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Sammy said as he handed the kid a twenty dollar tip and stepped out of the cab. The kid deserved that for the reality check he had given Sammy. Between the kid and Sammy’s grandmother, Sammy shouldn’t have any illusions left.

And he felt worlds lighter.

 

Frank’s show was superb. The reason Sammy knew that was because he stood in the shadows and caught the last fifteen minutes. The audience was enthralled. Sammy was enthralled. Frank held them in the palm of his hand. He could have crushed them when he closed his hand, and they would have died gladly. 

His heart was bleeding, and they bled along with him. No, he bled for them. He did their bleeding for them. He was theirs and he would die for them. That’s how much he loved them, his singing told them. That’s how much he cared about them.

And Sammy wanted to weep. That man on stage had talent. There was no denying that. But, damn it, he had talent, too!

But Sammy knew, as sure as he was standing there, that his talent wasn’t as great as the giant performing before him.

And his heart screwed tightly shut. He froze in time. He couldn’t breathe. He was watching greatness, and greatness looked humbly back and bled all over the stage.

Sammy couldn't do that. Not ever. Not the way Frank did it.

Not ever.

 

After the show, Sammy found his way back to the dressing room of the star. No guards stood at the door, and that was strange. Generally, Frank had a battalion of them on call. But not tonight.

Sammy slipped inside the dressing room. Frank had dimmed the lights. No stage makeup needed to be applied now. No harsh lights needed to be burning.

Frank sat slumped in front of the makeup mirror, the smoke from a cigarette curling away from him.

Sammy hadn’t made a sound, well, maybe a whisper of fabric as he entered the room. That was all. But Sinatra knew.

Frank frowned as he took a drag off his cigarette. “What kept you, Bucko?” he muttered in a voice so soft that Sammy almost didn’t hear him.

Sammy had stopped just inside the door. That would be neutral territory. “I didn’t know if I was welcome.”

Sinatra smirked, then crushed out his cigarette. “Your black ass is always welcome. It's getting to be that time of night when I need company.”

“How was I to know that? You froze me out of a picture. I kinda got the idea that you didn‘t like me so much, anymore.”

“You said that you’re a better singer than I am. And you shared it with a few thousand of your closest friends on an open mike.”

“I am a better singer.” 

Frank scowled at Sammy’s image in the mirror. “That’s one man’s opinion.”

“It’s mine.”

“Well, you’re welcome to it.” He breathed deeply. “Where you been?”

“Here. There. You?”

“Same places.”

“I didn’t see you,” Sammy challenged.

“I didn’t intend for you to." Sinatra frowned. "Feel better now that we got that bullshit out of the way?”

“That‘s one thing about bullshit. It‘s so damn honest.” 

Sinatra smirked. “And the black kid tells the truth to the hard nosed pro once more.”

Sammy trembled, but he had to bluff this out. “That’s the way that the black kid is wired.”

“I know,” Sinatra said softly. He breathed deeply again. “I was there, you know.” He saw Sammy’s puzzled look. “Tonight. At the Sands. I saw your show.”

Sammy’s face cleared. So his instincts had been right. “Oh.” But that was as committed as he would be.

“I knew you were out here tonight at my show, too. You didn’t catch much of it, though.”

“How did you know I was there? I was in the shadows. A black man is hard to see in the shadows.”

“I knew,” Frank answered. “Just as I know that you knew I was at your show. And don‘t pull that prejudice shit on me. Accuse me of a lot of things, but never that. If you must disparage me, just say I‘m a lousy singer.”

“I didn‘t say you were a lousy singer. I said that I was a better singer.”

Sinatra smirked. “Oh, yeah. I guess there is a difference, isn‘t there?”

Sammy nodded. “Okay. You’re right. And I didn’t mean the dig about the prejudice bit, either. But when you’ve been toting around this dark skin as long as I have, you get a little defensive. You get prejudiced in your own way, just as I suppose I am. But you aren’t. You’re color blind. I guess I should be, too.”

“Besides, that’s not what our beef is about. It comes under the heading of talent.” Frank sneered the last word, which was not his style. Tired, bored, world weary, jaded, yeah, but never like he was suffering from P.M.S.

“The way I see it,” Sinatra continued, “talent is just another way of saying unique. And, kid, we’re both unique. There’s enough of the world out there, we don’t have to fight over it. There’s room for both of us.”

“Would you feel that way if you had been the one to come out and said that you were the better singer?”

Sinatra even managed to chuckle. “We’ll never know, will we?”

Their eyes locked in the reflection of the mirror. They held that look for several heart-stopping moments. Then they both looked away, as if they had both heard some silent command to do so.

“Irregardless of what you said, I think it’s come back to bite you in that sweet black ass of yours.”

The suddenness of the statement caught Sammy off guard, and he sputtered when it finally struck him about what Sinatra had said.

“You’re feeling guilty as hell over what you did to me, Bucko.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Sammy declared as he turned for the door.

“Sammy,” Frank said quietly, but it had the command of a shout.

Sammy stopped and bent his head. He was powerless to move.

“I don’t care what you think of my singing. That isn’t what has me concerned. I do care about what this is doing to you. I want you to stop hurting.”

Sammy squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t.”

“Look. I’m sorry, too. I shut you out of a picture. I have my pride, though. I had to do that.”

Sammy nodded. “I understand.”

“But I didn’t enjoy it. And it didn’t make me feel any better. And it sure as hell didn’t solve anything.” Sinatra frowned. "I hate what you made me do. To you." His eyes burned into Sammy's reflected eye. "You know why you could get by with that, don't you? Why I did something I didn't want to do, but did it, anyway?"

"Yes, sir," Sammy answered softly.

"That's the power you have over me, you skinny little darkie."

Sammy tried hard not to smile, but the joy was bubbling up through him and had to be released somehow. Sinatra loved him. The great man had as much as said it. But it was tearing him up trying to say it when he didn't want to let that last defense down.

Deep down, Sammy knew that sometimes love wasn't enough. Sometimes a person has to keep the tatters of pride in place. That might be the outcome here. A person had to be true to himself. Had to stay independent, no matter how much love figured into the equation. Self-respect was involved. That might be Sinatra's ultimate bottom line. Sammy could understand the problem with self-respect. He'd been having quite a struggle with his own here, lately.

"I don't have to say it, then?" Sinatra looked anything but pleased. In fact, he looked more like he was suffering from a bad case of dyspepsia.

"No, sir," Sammy answered softly again. "That's the really bad part of this, what I forced you to do."

"Because you are important to me," Sinatra said in an angry, singsong voice.

"Because I am important to you," Sammy answered in the same singsong voice. But not angry. The two guys were saying things that just should have been assumed were already in place. How could Sammy have doubted?

And, while we're at it, how could Sammy have betrayed Sinatra? Let's get all the cards on the table. Not up a sleeve, where they can cause all sorts of trouble.

"I shouldn’t have told that radio guy what I thought.”

“You have a right to your opinion.”

“But I think this was a case where I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”

“Perhaps.”

“Besides. You’re the superstar in this room. I’m just a little comet blazing through a universe that you own.”

“But, oh, what a trail of fire you’re leaving!” Sinatra mumbled in a heartfelt whisper.

Sammy grinned, but it was a sad grin.

“And you’re greater than you think, Bucko. You’ve got heart. And that comes through to your audience. That’s why they love you. That’s why I--” he turned away, realizing what he was saying. “That’s why I think it’s high time to leave this all behind us.”

“It’ll always be there.”

“Kid, there’s always crap between people. They just have to acknowledge it, and go on. Hell, the whole world would be at war constantly, otherwise.”

“Then, I can, ah, come back?”

“I still need someone to help me make it through the night. And you’re so good for me, kid.” He glanced sharply at Sammy. “And to me.” Sinatra half turned and held a hand back toward Sammy. "What do you say, Bucko? Help me make it through the night again?" He pursed his lips slightly, but his blue, blue eyes were earnest. "I would so love it if you only would."

Sammy was barely aware of rushing across the room, sinking to the floor, crawling between Sinatra’s knees, and bracing his elbows on the tops of Sinatra's legs. Sammy could feel tears stinging his one good eye as he looked up earnestly into Sinatra’s face. Please read what my heart is telling you, Sammy begged, with that same heart reflected in his contrite face.

Sinatra studied that worshipful face. Then with a sad smile, he reached out and cupped Sammy’s chin with his hand.

“I’ve missed you, too, Sammy.”

That’s the only encouragement Sammy needed. He leaned forward, pulled his arms around Sinatra’s waist, and burrowed his face into Sinatra’s chest.

“Oh, Frank,” he sighed. “I’ve missed you. My body.” He blushed against Sinatra's shirt, so Sinatra missed it. "My body has a hunger for you. I’ve wanted to be with you again, so much."

“That can be arranged,” Sinatra murmured as his lips touched the top of Sammy’s head.

Sammy glanced up. “And if I want those lips on other parts of me? Can that be arranged, too?”

Sinatra smirked. “Damn, kid! You’ve got a smart mouth.”

“I’ve got other attributes, too.”

Sinatra’s smile deepened. “And I suppose you’re willing to share them with me?”

“Yes, sir, I am.” Sammy grew serious. “Anything you want, Mr. Sinatra. Anytime.” He paused. "Anything." He stared at Sinatra. "Anywhere."

“Then I want your black ass,” Sinatra said in a hard voice. “Now!”

Sammy‘s smile was the sun coming up in the desert in the middle of summer. Sharp and hot. “Yes, sir!”

“But first, give me a kiss that I’ll always remember. One that shows me your gratitude.”

“Yes, sir!” And with that, Sammy ducked his head.

Wrong direction, Frank Sinatra wanted to say. But then he drew his breath in sharply, and his eyelids fluttered.

Damn, that kid could deliver!

**Author's Note:**

> Davis did say on radio that he thought he was a better singer than Sinatra which caused a rift between the two. Subsequently, Davis was replaced in Never So Few by Steve McQueen. But Sinatra had supported Davis when he dated white women and had protected Davis from threats of injury because of that practice. So it seems odd that Davis would have made such a public statement about Sinatra.
> 
> I own nothing of the estates of the late Frank Sinatra and/or Sammy Davis, Jr., nor do I own anything dealing with present day ventures of their franchises.


End file.
